


After 03x01 (the Jailhouse Job)

by PseudoLeigha



Series: (More) 2AM Conversations [31]
Category: Leverage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-24
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 03:31:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6639649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoLeigha/pseuds/PseudoLeigha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nate and Eliot discuss self-sacrifice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After 03x01 (the Jailhouse Job)

After the party broke up at what Nate was really finding difficult now to think of as his own apartment, but he would be damned if he called ‘Leverage HQ,’ having resolved to take on Damian Moreau; after he declared to ‘Sophie’ that his intention was now to try being a drunk thief (and goddamnit, it was irritating that everyone else knew what her real name was, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of begging to know); after several hours of sitting, staring, blankly into space, wondering how long they could keep this up, keep doing the work, with a constant threat of death hovering over his crew, Eliot returned.

Nate would be lying if he said he hadn’t hoped it would be Sophie, instead. He’d thought they had the beginnings of something, when she was trying to convince him to break out and rejoin them, or before, when he had kissed her on the ship. That was _definitely_ flirting, earlier, Miss, ‘You’re a thief, now. You can save yourself.’ Wasn’t it?

But she hadn’t come back. And Eliot had. He grabbed the bottle that was keeping Nate company on the couch in what used to be his living room, and poured himself a double.

“Nate.”

“Eliot.”

Eliot drained the glass in a most uncharacteristic way – normally he was almost as… fastidious? (It wasn’t the word he wanted, but he was feeling a buzz for the first time in months, so he wasn’t about to complain. It would do.) Eliot was normally almost as fastidious about alcohol as Parker. He was always up for a beer or two, but he only ever sipped at the hard stuff. Now he had finished a double in under ten seconds, and was pouring himself a second.

That one he sipped at.

“It occurs to me,” Nate found himself saying slowly, “that you never did answer my question, earlier.”

“What question?” Eliot growled.

“Are we okay?”

The younger man caught his eye for the first time since they had run into the gunmen at the door. “Yeah. We’re okay.” After a second, he elaborated. “We always were. I just like makin’ you sweat.”

There was another long silence, and another round of drinks before Eliot spoke again.

“I understood, y’know. Puttin’ yourself on the line to save your men – your crew. You got us in that mess, but you jumped on the grenade – made the sacrifice play, to get us out. I can respect that. An’ y’came back in the end. Didn’ leave us hangin’ like ya made out you were gonna do. I’ll admit, I was a little pissed when you told Sophie to fuck off. I talked her aroun’, man. I talked _Parker_ around!”

It was news to Nate that Parker had _needed_ talking around. “You got Parker to talk about her feelings?”

“I’m a fuckin’ genius, man, y’all underestimate me.” Nate chuckled. That was probably true. “So, yeah, we’re good.”

“But?”

“But?” Eliot repeated, confused.

“I’m hearing a ‘but,’ there,” Nate elaborated. “We’re good, but…”

Eliot froze, then sighed.

“But that’s not your job.”

Now it was Nate’s turn to be confused. “What?”

“It’s not ‘we’re good, but…’ it’s ‘you made the sacrifice play, and I can respect that, but…’ that’s not your job.”

“ _Eliot_ ,” Nate started, but the younger man spoke over him.

“No, Nate. You know my role in this team. I’m not just the guy who punches people. I’m your security, your backup. It’s _my_ job to take the hits so you guys can get in and get out. It’s not your job to sacrifice yourself.”

“Because it’s yours?” Nate asked, unimpressed by Eliot’s logic.

“Yes. _Your_ job is to be the brains of the outfit. You’re our commander, our quarterback, whatever. You call the plays. You don’t try to charm the mark, you don’t try to crack a safe or hack a computer, and you sure as hell don’t try to give yourself up to save the rest of us.” He stood and cracked his back.

“Is that what you came here to say?”

“You tell me, Nate.”

 _What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ “Maybe you’d better make it extra clear for me,” he suggested, meeting Eliot’s challenging glare with just a hint of genuine, alcohol induced confusion.

The hitter shook his head slowly before he spoke again. “You’d better be playin’ this one straight with us, Nate. If this Damian Moreau thing is you tryin’a protect the rest of us, an’ bein’ honest with ya, I can’t see anything this Italian has to send bein’ worse than takin’ on Moreau… we can find another way.”

 _Yeah_ , Nate thought sarcastically. _And what is that other way going to be? Run? Forever?_ “No, if it was like that, none of you would be going anywhere near that fucker. Either one of those fuckers. And before you say it, I know as well as you do that even if we do the job she wants, she won’t let us go, after. So we’re doing the only thing we can: Take down Moreau, take down the Italian, walk away with a bad enough rep that no one will _ever_ consider blackmailing us again.”

There was some kind of darkness in Eliot’s eyes as he nodded, once, slowly. “Then we’re good.”

Nate had enough sense of theater and timing to recognize when he didn’t get the last word. The hitter left silently, and he poured himself another drink.

Good might _not_ be the word for it.

But they were _back_.


End file.
